=^.^=

The bar was quiet that night.

Dim lights. Low chatter. A few broken souls hunched over mismatched cups like they had something worth forgetting. You blended right in. The place wasn't much—just an old warehouse someone had half-assed into a watering hole. Wooden crates doubled as tables. There was a broken jukebox in the corner no one dared touch, and the walls still smelled faintly like motor oil and dust. Luis ran the place like it was his living room. Scarred up, broad-shouldered, with gray creeping into his thick black hair and a mustache straight out of a '90s mugshot. He had that old-school cholo presence—calm, carved from concrete, and not someone you wanted to piss off. The tattoos on his arms had long since faded into stories no one asked about.

He lumbered over now, eyes narrowed like you'd already annoyed him.

"You gonna pay for last week's?"

"I got you something," you said, pulling a crumpled ziplock from your jacket. Inside: half a pack of cigarettes and a chewed-up lighter that still sparked.

Luis grunted. It could've meant thanks. Could've meant you owe me another round. Either way, he set down three shots in front of you like he was doing you a grand favor. And to be fair he kind of was.

"You're a saint, Luis," you muttered, lining up the glasses like a funeral procession.

"Saint my ass," he muttered back, already walking off. You were just about to down the first shot when a shadow leaned in too close.

"Hey there," a man slurred beside you, slapping a hand on the stool you weren't offering. "You got a name, sweetheart?"

You didn't look at him. Just took your first shot. Burned all the way down. It sent shivers down your spine. And you loved it.

"I was thinkin' maybe it's 'beautiful'," he added, proud of himself.

Second shot. Harsher this time. Your jaw tightened.

He leaned in like he thought this was going somewhere. Big guy. Thick neck. Teeth like they'd seen hell and lost. He reminded you of a bulldog someone hit too many times and forgot to train. Internally, you were screaming : Absolutely not. Jesus Christ.

"Come on now," he purred. "You here alone?"

"Obviously trying to be," you snapped. "Then you came along."

Behind the bar, you heard Luis huff—low, like he was trying not to laugh.

The guy didn't take the hint. "You got some attitude on you, girlie."

"And you got the face of a poorly bred bulldog, but I'm not pointing it out."

Luis let out a full snort this time.

The man scowled. "What'd you call me?"

You threw back the third shot, slapped the glass down, and stood up.

"Leaving now," you muttered to yourself. "Before I do something stupid."

You pushed through the bar's crooked double doors and into the night. The air was cool, thick with Richmond's usual cocktail of sweat, ash, and humidity. You made it halfway across the street before you heard boots behind you.

"Hey!" Bulldog grunted. "I wasn't done talking to you, bitch!"

You didn't turn. "Oh, fuck off." There was pure venom in your voice. You kept walking. 

He didn't fuck off. In fact, he did the opposite. Suddenly, his hand was on your waist—greasy, insistent, possessive—and it was like someone flipped a switch in your brain. You spun. Grabbed his wrist. And drove your elbow into his throat. He choked. Stumbled back. You didn't wait. You lunged, slammed your boot into his knee, and when he folded, your fist crashed into the side of his face. Bone cracked beneath your knuckles—might've been his cheekbone, might've been something in your hand. Definitely something in your hand. But you were too far gone to care. He tried to swing. You ducked, caught his arm and twisted. You heard a pop. He howled.

"Still think I'm 'beautiful', asshole?" you hissed, shoving him hard into the wall of the building.

You hit him again. And again. And again.

His face swelled fast.

There was footsteps. Shouting.

Arms around your shoulders, yanking you back.

"Enough! Enough!"

You twisted, snarling. Someone clipped your temple from the side. Your vision flared white.

A second hit followed. The street tilted.

And then—

Everything went black.

The first thing you felt was your mouth—dry as sandpaper, tasting like blood and regret. The second was your head. It was pounding. Not your usual post-bender ache, either. This one was sharp, blooming behind your eye like someone had lit a firecracker in your skull. You groaned. Sat up. Immediately regretted it. You were in a room that smelled like old piss, disinfectant, and hot metal. The walls were concrete. There was a cot under you that felt like it had been made for torture. You'd never been in Richmond's jail before, but it didn't take a genius to figure it out. They hadn't even cuffed you. Either they thought you weren't a threat now, or they were waiting to see what was left when the dust settled. Your fists ached. Your knuckles were split and caked with dried blood. You thought you'd hurt your wrist, too. You'd definitely hurt him—Pugly probably got carted off on a stretcher.

Good.

You pressed your back against the wall and shut your eyes. No shots. No numbing buzz. Just pain. Clear-headed, and miserable. You hated it.

Footsteps echoed down the hall—steady, purposeful. You didn't open your eyes until the cell door unlocked with a heavy click. Then you looked up. And there he was.

Javier Garcia.

Tall. Stubbly. That stupidly full head of hair. His expression somewhere between tired and disappointed. You'd seen him before—around the compound, making speeches, handling disputes, trying to look like he wasn't drowning under all the pressure he hadn't asked for. You'd never talked to him. Never needed to.

Until now, that was.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stood there in the doorway with his arms crossed, watching you like you were a ticking bomb he hadn't decided how to defuse yet. You glared back from the cot, one leg pulled up, jaw set. Your head throbbed like it was trying to split open from the inside.

"Well," he finally said, voice calm but clipped, "you really made an impression."

You rolled your eyes. "Great. Do I get a medal or something?"

"Depends. Do you want it engraved with 'assault and public disorder' or just 'shitty attitude'?"

You scoffed and looked away. "Didn't realize this place had a decorum policy."

There was a pause. You heard him shift, like he was leaning against the bars now.

"You put a guy in the infirmary," he said. "A fellow Richmond resident, by the way."

"Mr.'Fellow resident' shouldn't have put his hands on me."

"And you couldn't just walk away?"

"I did walk away," you snapped. "He followed."

Another pause. You heard him exhale slowly, like he was already tired of this conversation.

"I'm not saying you weren't provoked. But you beat the shit out of him in the middle of the street."

"Yeah, well—maybe next time someone won't think I'm a piece of meat with a pulse."

You finally looked at him. He met your gaze, unreadable. You expected him to be angry. Or condescending. Maybe both. But he just looked... annoyed. Not at you, exactly. Just at the situation.

"Listen, I get it," he said eventually. "I've seen the guy around. He's not exactly charming sober."

You arched a brow. "So what, I get a pat on the back and sent on my way?"

"No," he said. "You get a warning."

You snorted. "Oh, terrifying."

He narrowed his eyes. "You wanna stay locked up?"

"Honestly?" You shifted back on the cot. "Not the worst sleep I've had."

You could tell he was biting back something—maybe irritation, maybe amusement. You couldn't tell, and you didn't care. Not now. Not like that.

"You been here a month, right?" he asked. "Worked a few scav runs?"

You shrugged. "If you know so much, why ask?"

He ignored that. "I need people who pull their weight. Not people who cause problems."

"Well, guess you're shit outta luck." You thought that would be the end of it. You hoped it was. But instead, Javi stepped forward, his voice lowering just a bit.

"Look, I'm not here to play warden. I just need to know: are you gonna be trouble?"

You met his eyes again, sharp and sober.

"I'm already trouble," you said flatly. "The real question is if you're smart enough to keep me around anyway."

The silence that followed was thick enough to chew through. He stared at you. Then finally, with a quiet shake of his head, he unlocked the door.

"Get cleaned up. You're off runs for a week. And don't make me regret this."

You stood, slow and sore, brushing past him with the barest sneer.

"No promises."

You squinted as the door clicked shut behind you, blinking hard against the daylight spilling across Richmond's cracked streets. The sun was too damn bright. It had to be past noon—warm, dry, and loud in that way only a functional place could be. Footsteps. Chatter. Work being done. Life continuing. Like nothing had happened. No one stopped to look at you. Not really. But you still felt it—the weight of eyes you imagined on you. The heat of whispers that might not have been real. You weren't new here, but you weren't known either. And after last night, you were betting people knew your name for the wrong reasons now. Your knuckles throbbed with every step you took. Your apartment sat on the upper floor of what used to be a radio shop. Narrow stairs. Peeling paint. The front lock still stuck—like always—but you forced it open with your shoulder.

Inside, it was dark and quiet. Safe. You kicked off your boots, shed your jacket, and headed straight for the shower. The water wasn't hot, but it was enough. You scrubbed off sweat, blood, dust, shame. Your hands stung under the stream—especially the right one. Split skin. Swollen knuckles. He'd deserved it. Every fucking hit.

...Hadn't he?

You pressed your forehead against the tile and closed your eyes. The ache in your ribs bloomed with every breath. Your body was worn out, but it was your head that wouldn't stop. You pictured his face—the bulldog. The way he touched you. The way he smirked.

But then your fist connecting. Over and over. Not stopping.

Your stomach turned.

Fresh clothes helped a little. Compression shirt. Loose navy jeans. Hair still damp. The bruises didn't show unless someone looked close. You dropped onto the edge of the bed, still towel-drying your hair when it happened.

That voice.

Not from the hallway. Not outside.

Inside.

"If a man likes you, be flattered, not rude."

You froze.

"A real lady knows how to let a man feel important."

You blinked slowly. Your towel slipped to the floor. Her voice always came honey-coated. Sweet. Controlled. Always at the worst fucking times. You felt something catch in your throat. Swallowed it. Your fingers twitched. You stared at your bandaged knuckles, heart crawling up into your neck.

You knew that guy had it coming. You knew you weren't wrong. But you also knew—deep down—you'd lost it. And that was what scared you most. Not that people saw. But that she would've.

Mom.

You lay back, staring at the ceiling like it might blink first. You didn't cry. You didn't scream. You just stayed still. Still enough to feel every inch of your body hurting. Still enough to hear her voice echo again, just one last time.

"If a man likes you—"

You should be flattered. 

Your mother had been a troubled woman. Constantly comparing herself to other women. Constantly chasing male validation like it was oxygen. And she'd passed it all down to you—quietly, relentlessly. Wrapped in sweet-smelling perfume and tight smiles. Wrapped in guilt. She'd been an airhead, and sometimes cruel. She made you feel small when she didn't mean to. And smaller when she did. But she was still your mother.

And you missed her. Every single day.

You sat up slowly, the weight of the room pressing in tighter with every breath. There was nowhere to be. No run to prep for. No bar to slip into. No noise to drown it out. Just you. The silence. And your stupid, stinging hands.

You knew what came next. You didn't fight it. If anything, you welcomed it.

You moved to the corner cabinet where you kept your stash—tucked behind a crate of old tools and some dried-up jerky no one had touched in weeks. You pulled out two half-empty bottles. One was some kind of whiskey. The other was gin, or maybe vodka. Who cared. You didn't drink for flavor. You poured them into the same cup—murky, bitter, familiar—and took a long swallow.

It burned going down.

You didn't flinch. You stretched out on the bed again, cup balanced on your stomach, staring at the ceiling while it all softened—your limbs, your jaw, the voices.

Not blacking out. Just enough to sleep. Just enough to forget.

You took another sip.

Then another.

And waited for the day to dissolve.

You woke up groggy, but not sick.

Head buzzed soft. Mouth dry. Muscles tight.

The sun was sinking, shadows stretching long across the walls. That old kit-clock you'd found when you got here still worked, even hung crooked. It dinged once—5 o'clock. It's switchy eyes moving back in forth.

Your stomach growled. You hadn't eaten since yesterday, but you had no appetite. Still, you forced yourself up, changed into something clean, and shoved your boots on like you had somewhere to be.

You didn't.

But starving was worse than being bored.

The ration line was short that day. Some mystery-meat chili. A couple crackers. You nodded at the kid scooping it out—he didn't bother with small talk, and you appreciated that. You took your tray and found the least occupied corner of the food yard. Sat on a concrete ledge. Ate fast.

No one joined you. You liked it that way. You were halfway through when your eyes drifted across the yard to the big communal table under the tarp canopy.

There he was.

Javier.

Sitting comfortably at the head of the table, laughing at something a younger kid said. He had that kind of smile that looked like it had been earned. Like he'd seen shit—but still found a reason to smile anyway. The kid with him—dark hair, lean build, maybe fifteen—was probably his son.

Figures.

The whole thing looked like a Hallmark poster if you squinted hard enough. Family dinner, community warmth, functioning people who knew how to play nice. You felt the corner of your lip curl. Of course he fit in here. Of course he had a table full of people and you had a cracked bench and lukewarm chili. You tore off a piece of cracker and shoved it in your mouth.

He didn't notice you.

Good.

You didn't need him giving you that tight little leader-smile and asking if you were "doing okay." You'd already done your time. You'd already gotten your punishment.

And now?

Now you had nothing to do. No runs. No missions. No way to score more supplies for Luis unless you started bartering with crap you didn't want to give up. You needed that tobacco coming in. You needed your drink. This whole one-week suspension was a bigger screw job than anyone realized. You tossed your tray in the bin, brushing your hands on your jeans. You'd figure something out. You always did.

The bar was dim, quiet—just how you liked it. Only a few people inside. Some drifter hunched over a game of solitaire. A couple regulars muttering low over a shared bottle. No one you had to talk to. No one stupid enough to try.

Luis was behind the bar, towel slung over one shoulder, wiping down the same glass like it had insulted his mother...

He didn't look up right away. Just said, "Well, look who finally got outta the slammer."

You slid onto your usual stool.

"Word travels fast around here, huh," you muttered.

"Especially when it's funny," he grunted, finally glancing at you. "Heard you dropped Bruce like a sack of wet shit."

You snorted. "Is that what the streets are saying?"

He shrugged. "Don't get excited. Guy's built like a boiled ham. Only thing strong about him is his stench."

You grinned a little. First time all day.

"Tell you the truth," Luis said, grabbing a bottle from under the counter, "I never liked the bastard. Always ordering sweet drinks and staring at girls like they owe him something. 'Bout time somebody shut his ugly mouth."

You lifted a brow. "Didn't peg you for the sentimental type."

"I'm not. But I respect good aim."

He poured you a shot without asking. You downed it quick, savoring the burn. But you didn't stop there. You reached into your jacket and pulled out your scratched-up flask. Set it on the bar. Nudged it toward him.

"Would you," you said, voice extra sweet, "do a poor, wounded soul a kindness and fill this up? Just a little. Out of pity."

Luis eyed the flask. Then eyed you.

"You practicing charm now? That shit supposed to work on me?"

You batted your lashes—exaggerated, mocking. "It working?"

He grunted. "Barely."

But he took the flask anyway. Filled it halfway. Slid it back like he was doing you a favor he was gonna regret later.

"Thanks, Papa Bear."

"Call me that again and I'll poison the next one."

You smirked. Took a sip from the flask. Stuffed it back into your jacket—a stash for later.

The buzz started settling in. Not enough to knock you out, but enough to quiet your nerves. Enough to start thinking clearly. You leaned back on the stool, eyes drifting lazily across the low-lit room.

You had a window of time.

Early morning. Pre-dawn.

No guards on full rotation. No civilians milling around the gates. Just enough time to slip out, grab what you needed, and get back before anyone noticed—especially a certain leader with nice hair and a hero complex.

It was risky. But not impossible.

Luis cleared his throat. You blinked, realizing you'd been staring into space.

"You planning something?" he asked, dry as ever. You smiled faintly.

"Just thinking."

He snorted. "Don't be thinkin' too hard, you might hurt yourself."

You knocked your knuckles on the bar twice and stood up.

"Thanks for the refill," you muttered.

"Well, whatever you're up to—don't die. Need someone to get me my tobacco fix," he said flatly.

"No promises."

You said it cool. Casual.

The morning air bit cold against your cheeks as you weaved through the side path near the south fence—quiet, empty, perfect. The trash gate was unguarded for another six minutes. You'd timed it. Backpack strapped on. Pistol snug against your hip. Hunting knife at your side. You were moving fast, eyes scanning ahead, breath tight in your chest—

And then—

Wham.

You slammed full force into a solid chest and immediately recoiled. Your boots skidded across the dirt, and your hand shot for your knife out of reflex—but someone grabbed your elbow.

A strong hand. Steady. Warm.

"Whoa—easy," a voice said.

You jerked back like you'd been burned. Then looked up.

Shit.

Javi Garcia.

Of course.

He blinked at you like he was just as surprised. His hair was tousled, his jaw still scruffy, probably from waking up only minutes ago. But his eyes were sharp. Alert. Focused. He glanced at the pack slung over your shoulder, the knife at your side, the stiff way you were holding yourself. His brow lifted, slowly.

"You heading out?" he asked.

You paused—just for a second. But it was enough. You could've told him the truth: that you were making a run for Luis. That you needed tobacco if you wanted to keep drinking as much as you did. That if you didn't numb the guilt sitting in your chest, you'd lose it completely. But Javi was the golden boy here. Richmond's new leader. And people like him didn't understand people like you. So instead, you lied. Boldly.

You cleared your throat and answered flatly:

"Forgot something yesterday."

A beat.

"Condoms."

Another beat.

"You know... safety first."

Internally you cringed, but your face stayed straight. Convincing. Silence blew past the two of you. Javi blinked—once, then again. His jaw ticked like he wasn't sure if he'd heard you right or if you were fucking with him. You kept your face deadpan. He looked vaguely stunned. Like maybe he'd expected anything else—hell, even supplies for plotting a murder would've made more sense. Your tone didn't change. You didn't flinch.

That was the trick. You said it like you were talking about a can of soup. Let him stew in the discomfort instead of asking more questions. Finally, Javi shifted his weight, cleared his throat, and scratched at the back of his neck.

"Well..." he muttered. "That's... responsible?"

You shrugged.

"Can't be too careful," you said. "Especially these days."

You walked past him like the conversation was over. But of course, it wasn't.

"You know you're suspended from runs, right?" he called after you.

You stopped. Sighed. Turned back just enough to show the irritation on your face.

"This isn't a run."

"You've got a knife, a pack—"

You narrowed your eyes. "So?"

He walked a step closer. "I'm coming with you."

You stared at him, mouth gapped in shock. "Why?"

He lifted a brow. "Let's call it community supervision."

You scowled. "Or you could mind your own damn business."

Javi just grinned. Shrugged.

"You're off the books. Might as well make sure you come back in one piece."

You hated that he was charming. You hated even more that he wasn't wrong.

But what you hated most?